


all things go

by ascloseasthis



Category: Homeland
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascloseasthis/pseuds/ascloseasthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn flies to Missouri. Alternate ending to 4x12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all things go

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for #1 on the LJ challenge here: http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/125637.html

She drives non-stop, fueled by caffeine and adrenaline in equal parts. Siri takes her right there, too; Carrie pulls into her mother’s driveway just as the sun is rising. She thinks, _okay. It’s that easy_.

All she had to do was make a decision and get in the car. For years and years, her mother never even picked up the phone. That was a decision too.

The house is nice. No white picket fence or anything as unsubtle as that, but she can hear wind chimes jingling somewhere. There’s a garden too, well-kept for this time of year. She can picture her mother living here, building her brand-new life, acting like she belonged here. Like she never left anything behind at all.

 

-

 

Carrie pulls up in front of the school just at the cusp of recess. She finds her mother in the schoolyard, confidently managing children. Carrie could honestly laugh at the irony of it all. Ellen spots her  —  freezes for a second. A colleague walks by and Ellen catches her by the elbow, makes some excuse or comment before approaching. Carrie waits.

“Carrie,” her mother says, and then: “What are you doing here?”

“I drove. All night. I went to your house.”

Ellen bites her lip. “Did you?”

“There was a boy there. He told me how to find you.” Carrie is shooting for matter-of-fact, but it comes out like an accusation. She can’t help it.

Her mother seems to age twenty years — _more_ — in the time it takes her to tell Carrie. The kid is her brother ( _half_ -brother, Ellen is quick to correct), and Carrie thinks, _okay_. Leave your husband and kids behind and start a brand new family. That makes complete sense. 

Carrie’s just opened her mouth to speak when the bell rings.

Ellen asks, almost pleads, “Can we meet later? At 3:30? You can come to the house or I can meet you.”

Carrie honestly wants to say no, but she doesn’t. After all, she drove all this way.

 

-

 

It’s all catching up with her.

Carrie searches her phone for a hotel with a spa. It’s probably optimistic to think that she’ll be able to avail herself of any of the amenities, but _maybe,_ and doubly-optimistic to think that she'll find what she's looking for here in this two-horse suburb.

She ends up in a suite that was probably the height of luxury in 1985. It's got a bathtub at least, and it's the highlight of the place. Carrie immediately flips the tap, filling the tub with water as hot as she can stand. 

Her clothes drop in a messy pile on the floor, and Carrie steps into the tub. She hisses when she sinks into the water. Her pale skin immediately goes pink. The heat melts into her muscles though, and for the first time in recent memory, Carrie is able to relax. 

Until her phone rings.

She’s inclined to ignore it, but she fumbles for her jacket beside the tub anyway. When she sees that it’s Quinn, she smiles, relaxing once more.

“Quinn,” she says. “Hi.”

“There’s a rumor you’re in Missouri.”

“Yeah. I should have called you, I’m sorry. I just… I found out where my mom is.”

“And drove there.”

“I should have called,” she repeats.

“I’m just wondering about you, Carrie. Are you all right?”

“Um, not really,” she says, and tries to laugh. “I have a _brother_ , it turns out, which… I don’t even know… I’m so tired, Quinn, I know we have to talk. We should talk. Obviously.” She sighs and sinks further into the bath. The water ripples around her.

“Carrie, what are you doing?” he asks, never missing a thing. 

“Getting ready for bed,” she lies. Not completely.

“At ten-thirty in the morning?”

“I drove all night,” she points out, but she gives in; she knows she’s been made. “Okay, I’m taking a bath. Happy?”

“Do you want me to join you?” he asks. Teasing. A little serious.

She doesn’t reply. It’s all so new, the lightness. Recovered, maybe.

He sobers. “Carrie, I could fly out.” There’s a tiny quiver to his voice that Carrie can’t ever remember hearing before.

“I’d like that,” Carrie says, surprising herself. She misses him suddenly, or not suddenly — she’s only just acknowledging it, but she’s spent a lot of time missing him lately. First in Kabul, then after Islamabad. “I’m somewhere in the suburbs of St. Louis.”

Quinn’s quiet on the line, she can’t even hear him breathing, and she comes close to panic, it lasts so long.

“Quinn?”

“Booked,” he tells her. “My plane lands at 4:30.”

Carrie lets out a breath.

“Okay. Okay, I can pick you up, I’m meeting my mother at 3:30.”

“No, don’t cut your visit short. I can just meet you after.”

“I’m picking you up. Purely selfish reasons,” she says drily, and then smiles. “I want to see you, Quinn.”

“Well,” Quinn says, sounding pleased, even surprised. “I’ll see you soon. But if things are going well with your mom, just text and I’ll meet you.”

“Okay. Quinn…?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” 

“For what?”

“I dunno. Being there.”

“I’ll see you soon, Carrie. Enjoy your bath.” His tone is as dry as fuck. 

“I _am_ ,” she says with a smile in her voice. It’s been so long for them, like this. “Bye, Quinn.”

 

-

 

“Carrie,” her mother says. She sounds pleased this time, looks it too, and Carrie raises her eyebrows. Ellen invites her in. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

She says yes to the coffee. “Black’s fine,” she clarifies preemptively, before Ellen has a chance to ask. She glances down at the mug when it’s placed in front of her, half-expecting something kitschy and awful. It’s worse, actually — a Starbucks mug from D.C. Stars and stripes, cherry blossoms… Carrie closes her eyes.

They get through the awkward preliminaries, barely, then Carrie strikes: “So why’d you just _vanish?_ You can start there.”

“I got pregnant with Tim.”

She goes on and on. Carrie is horrified and silent — Ellen cheated on Frank constantly, walked away because she couldn’t _not;_ it’s all so clichéd Carrie can’t help but tune her out. It isn’t until she implores Carrie not to blame her father that Carrie snaps to.

“I don’t blame _him_ ,” Carrie spits. “You’re the one who abandoned us, that was your decision. Dad blamed _himself_ , or his disease anyway, whenever he talked about you. And then I got diagnosed too and I thought, well, that’s it then. Nobody will ever love me, they’ll just leave.”

The mug is shaking in her hand, so hard that the hot dark liquid sloshes onto her sleeve.

Ellen says, “it was never about that. It was my fault, Carrie.”

“I know that. But you left me too, and even if the bipolar wasn’t official then, it was still _there_. I spent all this time thinking — fuck.” Abruptly, Carrie is done. Done with this woman who had no clue about who she was or what she needed or what she had _deserved_ as a teenager. Carrie knows suddenly that this apologetic preschool teacher from not-even St. Louis could never understand her. She could never know about the thousands of lives she had saved and what she had suffered as a result. All the sacrifice and the damage she’d inflicted on others without understanding why. Maybe this was why. This mother who walked away when she was desperate. This woman had normalized desperation and made her disbelieve in love. Of this she is suddenly clear.

Carrie rises abruptly. “I’ve gotta go, thank you. I’m not gonna waste any more of my life.”

“Please stay,” Ellen asks, and isn’t that fucking rich, coming from her.

“I really can’t.”

Ellen gives Carrie her phone number anyway. Carrie puts it into her phone, but doesn’t return the favor. “Think about calling, please.”

“I will,” she says — lies — she won’t.

 

-

 

 _I’m outside_ , she texts. Quinn’s plane landed a few minutes ago and she’s antsy waiting for him to come outside — she wishes she’d parked, but there hadn’t been time. She idles sitting in the pick-up area and drums her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.  

He creeps up on her, startling her when he taps on the window. “Quinn,” she breathes, and it’s unimaginable that it’s been less than eighteen hours since she last saw him, since he kissed her. He smiles and opens her door.

“You tired of driving?”

She laughs because, as opening lines go, it’s perfect. “Oh. Yes, _please_ ,” she says, and climbs over the console to the passenger’s seat, and Quinn looks at her, amused.

He tosses his bag into the back seat before sliding in after her, adjusting the seat to accommodate his tall frame.

“Hey,” he says, finally pausing, downplaying, but clearly knowing it’s a _moment_. Of course he knows.

“Hey,” she says back and then she tears up. She can’t help it. It’s been a really shitty day and here, by the grace of god, is her best friend and so much more, who just hopped on a plane because he knew.

“I’m so glad you came,” she sighs, and wipes at her eyes.

“Rough day?” 

She can’t help laughing at how supreme an understatement that is, but she quickly sobers and considers the question. “I’ve had worse, but… rough doesn’t actually cover it.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.

“Maybe over drinks?” Carrie suggests. “Food? It’s almost five, not that _that_ matters.”

She reaches for his hand. She can’t stop looking at him but just having him here isn’t enough; the gap between them, not eighteen inches, is still too much. He smiles at her — he’s never done that enough, and he lets her twine her fingers through his.

 

-

 

They end up at a nondescript little Italian place not far from the hotel. Carrie slides into the corner booth first, Quinn just after her. Carrie snags the wine menu — “you okay with pinot grigio?”

“I’m not particular about wine,” he admits. “Whisky, however...”

“Right. Wine’s too… what, _girly_?” She grins up at him. Impulsively, she kisses his cheek.

He softens. Even more than he had already with Carrie’s hand-holding and smiles in the car. “Something like that.”

The wine arrives, glasses are poured, food is ordered too, and their waiter disappears. Carrie lifts her glass; Quinn follows suit. “To new beginnings,” she offers, and they clink and drink.

“So,” Quinn says. “Missouri.”

“My mom came to Maggie’s a couple days ago. I... It was bad.” She can’t help but laugh at the understatement. “And then you showed up — and after Pakistan, I was just… Quinn, I have never been happier to see anybody in my life. And then, _after_... you threw me.”

“My timing may not have been optimal,” he agrees cautiously.

Another understatement. They both smile. “In a way it was. You know, my dad always told me that my mom left us because of _him_ , because of _his_ bipolar. I always believed that, so when I was diagnosed — I mean, you _know_ the shit with Brody… It was never gonna work out and I always knew that. It’s like I went out of my way to find someone who would never really accept me.”

There’s a pause, a moment where she knows they’re both remembering the exact same thing.

Finally, he says, “I know what I’m signing up for, Carrie.”

She's thrown, a little bit. The silence hits so hard she can practically hear her own heartbeat — or maybe that's just him, the effect he has. She reaches for his hand. 

“Yeah, well. It turns out that’s not why my mom left, anyway. She cheated on my dad — a lot — and then got knocked up with my brother. It wasn’t about him, it was her. And I’m not her. I mean, I don’t have to be.”

“No, you don’t have to be. You’re not.”

She swallows. “And… and—“ she laughs, “— _fuck,_ this honesty stuff is hard. I want to try. With you.”  

His entire face changes. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have asked you here if I was gonna say no. But I _am_ a mess, Quinn. What is wrong with you that you want this?”

Quinn breaks her grip, slides his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. She’s reminded of how solid he is, his body’s warm against her. Carrie tilts her face up to his.

It could have been a kiss but their waiter interrupts, food in hand. Eggplant for Carrie, chicken for Quinn, and huge portions of pasta for both. “Are we carbo-loading?” Quinn asks, keeping it light for her, amused. “Is this why you wanted Italian?”

“I plead the fifth,” she quips. Quinn tips more wine into her glass. “You don’t need to get me drunk, you know.”

Quinn maintains his vise-grip on her. “It can’t hurt.”

He eats with his left hand, starting with the pasta because he can’t cut the chicken without letting go of her. Carrie laughs when she notices and pulls his plate toward her, taking a break from her own meal to cut it for him. It’s sweet, it’s so stupidly sweet, and Quinn kisses the top of her head when she pushes the food back to him.

“That was very helpful, thank you.”

“It was an entirely selfless act, I assure you.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m wondering who you are and what you’ve done with Carrie.”

“Eat your chicken, Quinn.”

“With pleasure.”

 

-

 

She kisses him in the elevator, just once. Quinn runs his fingers through her hair, careful and gentle on her jaw. They break as the doors open and Carrie digs her keycard out of her wallet. As soon as they are inside the hotel room, she presses up on her toes to kiss him with real intention. She can taste the espresso on his tongue.

He walks her back slowly toward the bed. Carrie sits, watches Quinn carefully as he kneels down in front of her and unzips her boots and unties his own. When he rises, Carrie reaches for the bottom of his shirt, but he stops her. “Let’s take this slow,” he says, his voice husky.

“We can take it slow later,” she suggests, but she doesn’t complain when Quinn pulls her down to lay beside him. He’s a man who’s learned to be patient, stakeouts and Black Ops and waiting for her, too. So she decides to let him have this, even as she’s pulsing with want.

Quinn shifts so he’s balanced over her, pupils wide and dark when she looks in his eyes, she can see herself reflected in them — her personal mirror. Carrie reaches for him, twists her fingers into his hair so she can pull him to her. He obliges, ducking to her mouth for a kiss. He sinks down beside her, Carrie instinctively loosens her grip, and then he flips onto his back, pulling her on top of him. 

Carrie smiles against his mouth and slips her hand under his shirt. She can feel his abs flexing under her palm, the ridge of a scar — the remains of Gettysburg, she guesses — under her thumb. He lets her, but he pulls her so close that he traps her at the elbow, fingers curling into his skin, her explorations halted by the pressure. Kissing him alone is overwhelming, almost like he thinks it's his only chance.

She wants him, but somehow more than that, she wants to give him what _he_ wants. Until now it’s always been _taking_ , sometimes just using. But she’s taking a step toward something real, maybe even lasting.  

When his grip finally relaxes, Carrie sighs into him, thinks: _finally_. Quinn pulls her up, his breath is shaky but his hands aren't — he slides them smoothly up her sides, pulls her shirt carefully over her head. "Fuck, Carrie," he sighs. His mouth is on her throat, her collarbone, Carrie can't stand it. She's almost vibrating under his touch; it's killing her.

She tries again. It’s the second time he stops her from pulling off his shirt and Carrie just gives in, surrendering. She doesn’t get to control, not this time, and that’s his point. Quinn deftly unbuttons her jeans and slides them down her thighs, underwear too, and Carrie feels incredibly exposed, but safe too. "Quinn," she says.

"Carrie," he says back, and then he moves back up to her face, it's infuriating really.

"Please," and it's a real plea. Quinn smiles when he unsnaps her bra, she's completely at his mercy. She bites her lip as his lips move down her clavicle, along the line of her shoulder. His hands feel like they're everywhere, open wide on her torso and sliding down her hips. When his fingers finally slip between her legs, Carrie could honestly cry from the relief.

His fingers find what she needs, and her cry is long and fervent because the wait has been so long and, fuck it, unnecessary. She can’t recall the reason for it, can’t bring herself to care. 

She’s wet, absurdly so, and he knows. He just fucking _knows_ her. “Carrie…” he manages, voice broken. It’s his undoing, and hers, as his fingers slip inside her.

She comes, fast and furious. Her entire body seizes under his touch, and his eyes never leave her face as her neck arches, and she is gone with an animal cry.

It’s two full minutes before she makes eye contact and finally murmurs, compliantly, “you win.”

He laughs, a little tense, wary. “What have I won?”

“Me. Though I’m not sure I’m much of a prize.” She looks down, impatient. “What do I have to do to get you naked? Jesus, Quinn.”

He looks surprised at first, like he hadn’t even noticed the imbalance, but then he smiles and obliges her. He takes off his shirt, finally, slowly, then everything else. Carrie watches, admiring, until at last they’re both naked; the intimacy shocks them both.

Quinn moves to hover over her, but just before he takes her, he pauses. Carrie wonders if an _I love you_ is imminent, if she should say it, if he will — but then their eyes meet, and she knows it isn’t necessary. He knows. So does she. She smiles.

When he finally fucks her, he’s deliberate and careful and hard. He fills her in every way. His body, his need, his fucking soul. It’s overwhelming.

When she’s about to come, his hand drifts to her face, cupping her cheek, and their eyes lock. “Carrie,” he whispers. 

“I know, Quinn.” It’s all she can say. Then she’s gone, less sharply than the last time, but marrow-deep with an intensity that shocks her.

Before he comes he surprises her, grabbing her wrists over her head in one hand, the other fists in her hair, freezing her head in place, immobile. Trapped and controlled. She has a heated, fleeting thought: _well, he is an assassin — what did you expect, Mathison?_

The last thrusts are as hard as she’s known and he comes with a groan, primal as anything and wrenched from deep inside.

It’s long seconds later, when she feels his hotness inside her, that she remembers — and he does too. “Fuck, I forgot,” he mutters, pulling out and rolling to his back.

She wipes a hand over her face, trying to recenter, considering. “It should be fine… but you brought some?”

“Yeah.” He’s still getting control of his breathing. 

She props herself on an elbow, gazes at him. Smiling. “That’s confident.”

“I didn’t come here to play house, Carrie.”

“You sure? Did you have homelessness in mind when we _get out together_?”

“Are we?”

“What?”

“Getting out together?”

She sobers, then. She hadn’t gotten that far. The getting out part, anyway. She leans down and kisses him, long and slow.

“I don’t know about that, but I know about this. About you and me.”

His arm bends behind his head and he regards her fully, smiling at her certainty. “Since when?”

She thinks for a long time. “I’m not sure. I kind of always knew. I just didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust myself."

He nods. He rises and presses her back into the pillow.

Before he can kiss her, she says, “you’re a brave man, Peter Quinn.”

“Why?”

“For taking me on.”

“I know.”

“Not very smart,” she tries to add, but his lips are on hers and the insult is lost. 

Carrie doesn't mind; she tries to pull him closer, curls her arm around his shoulder. Quinn tips his forehead to hers.

"Quinn?"

"Carrie." 

"What comes next?" 

Quinn lets out a breath and sinks back down onto the mattress beside her. "Twelve hour drive, Mathison. Well planned." 

She ponders this. "In a very roomy Jeep," she notes, lips curving. 

He takes her point. "What do you say we take the long way home?" 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this months ago and never intended it to see the light of day, but I let Leblanc1 read some of it and she demanded it be finished. She wrote most of the smut. I told her I'd do it, but she did it. Thank you, Leblanc1. For reading, writing, and having the courage to edit me. <3


End file.
